


Defining Frivolous

by PeniG



Series: Akashic Records [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Other, Violence lurks but barely surfaces on-stage, how a smart angel gets into such a dumb predicament, will only make sense to show viewers in light of Episode 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeniG/pseuds/PeniG
Summary: C’mon, is it even possible to watch the French prison scene and not think “setup city?”Sometimes you have to think outside the box to get what you need in spite of your bosses.





	Defining Frivolous

**Author's Note:**

> The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, by William and Catherine Blake is...a lot of things, but one thing it is not is a work of literature the GO Heaven would find congenial. And it was published in 1793. So there you go. Other authors in the to-be-read stack include Mary Wollstonecraft, William Godwin, and Immanuel Kant. It's an exciting time intellectually.
> 
> Although the guillotine was in use earlier, the Reign of Terror did not really settle into being a relentless notable solid Thing until September of 1793; some historians date it as beginning September 5. Aziraphale is being hopeful about things calming down, but not hopelessly naive.
> 
> The modern Paris of broad boulevards dates back to Napoleon Bonaparte, who at the time of this installment is only starting to make a name for himself. I didn’t even try to orient our protagonists in the city. Somebody who is familiar with the city and its historical layers should give them a nice holiday there, though.

_Something’s got your lot stirred up. Saw M down at the docks._

Crowley’s note shriveled and glowed in Aziraphale’s hand, which he closed over it, enduring and healing the burn simultaneously with the ease of practice. Somewhere downstairs someone pounded on the house door, making the entire structure shake; but since one of his downstairs neighbors was a prizefighter this was not an unusual occurrence. The profession as a whole was always applying too much force to the world. Aziraphale wrote up a label with the date of the note and the initials ML (for My Lot) and affixed them to Antwerp with a pin. Black for Crowley. Blue was for information derived from the _Celestial Times_, white for the human press, and red for his correspondents - poets, scientists, philanthropists, cranks, scholars, booksellers, publishers, and mystics - who in the course of leisurely intellectual discussions sometimes dropped a tidbit reeking of Occult or Ethereal business. Sourcing information is important to spotting the patterns.

Noisy footsteps thumped up the stairs to a background of the landlady’s shrill protests. He stood back to regard the map on the wall of his sitting room by the harsh summer light through his dormer. Crowley’s masters had him popping up and down all over Europe at the moment (“the moment” being the past ten years or so). Something was up. He didn’t know what, or who was at the root of it, but whatever it was, Crowley was Hell’s cat’s paw in the matter, and Aziraphale Did Not Like It. He suspected his own Head Office had Something perpendicular to the same matter going on, but he was out of the loop and that did not make him feel any better, at all. He didn’t think it had anything to do with humans directly, which technically made it not his business; but it looked as if Hell and Heaven were on some sort of collision course and he did not want anyone caught in the crossfire.

Mrs. Brown’s voice faded into panting and Little Jane, the maid-of-all-work, took over as the footsteps thundered past the prizefighter’s landing. “Indeed, sir, there’s no need to go all the way up there! Mr. Fell much prefers to meet people in the parlor. I’ll tell him you’re here and -“

“I don’t care what Mr. Fell prefers! Get out of the way!” Sandalphon bellowed.

Aziraphale jumped, switched _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ from the top to the middle of his reading stack, twitched a blotter over the half-drawn diagram of London’s mystic and social energies intended to help him locate the ideal spot for a bookshop, checked to be sure he hadn’t stuck his pen behind his ear, and opened the door while Sandalphon was still a floor below him. “It’s all right, child,” he called to Little Jane. “The gentleman means no harm. Good afternoon, Sandalphon. How lovely to see you, but you needn’t have come up all this way. You’d be much more comfortable in Mrs. Brown’s parlor.”

“I didn’t come here to be comfortable,” said Sandalphon. “And you should’ve thought about where you wanted to conduct business before you moved into the top of the house!”

Aziraphale stepped aside as Sandalphon charged through the door, and bent over the stair rail to address Little Jane’s pinched, upturned face, almost as pale as her mobcap. “No need to bring a tray up, thank you! He won’t stay long enough for refreshments.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Fell?” Little Jane still looked worried, and Aziraphale was touched to realize that it was on his behalf. She almost certainly thought Sandalphon was a bailiff’s man, come to arrest him for debt, or possibly the actual debtor's man, come to do something worse. So he smiled his most reassuring smile for her, summoned up some resolve, and went in to deal with his - caller. Yes, caller. Thinking of Sandalphon as his _guest_ was more than he could manage.

Little Jane’s apprehensions were not without foundation in the evidence before her, though of course Aziraphale had no debts. Sandalphon looked something like a well-to-do bailiff’s man, something like a prizefighter, and something like a footman, standing in the middle of the sitting room amid piles, shelves, arrangements, maps, pins, strings, bookmarks, clippings, and notes that his mere presence seemed to cast into disarray. The books on top of _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ seemed particularly precarious, but Sandalphon was looking at the map, so Aziraphale stood between him and the reading stack, hands behind his back, and straightened the books out of his line of sight. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Instead of answering, Sandalphon pointed to the map, particularly the concentration of pins around northern France, the Channel, and the Netherlands. “What’s _this_ about?”

“Just, you know, keeping an eye on things,” said Aziraphale, sifting through the facts to arrange the most innocuous ones into the most blameless pattern. “One picks up, er, bits and bobs of information that when put together by a, er, reasonably knowledgeable person become, become suggestive. Mostly I’m looking for situations of concern in the British Isles, since Gabriel indicated I might be permanently stationed here, and I have nothing but admiration for the way our Continental operatives are handling the, the complex situation over there, but everything’s so close together. The Channel isn’t, well, to the sort of trouble _we_ have to be on the lookout for it isn’t a serious barrier, is it? And of course my charges have ships there which need looking after. I would so hate to be taken unawares!”

“Huh,” Sandalphon huffed, looking from him to the map and back as if something didn’t add up. “Lot of pins. Lots of different colors. It can’t really _tell_ you anything.”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale conceded. “The colors and the, the notes have specific meanings to me that I wouldn’t expect anyone else to pick up on without instruction. I haven’t seen anything that, that there is any reason to believe Heaven isn’t fully aware of, so I have hesitated to voice anything in a Report.”

“And what are you seeing that you would even _consider_ pestering Gabriel with?”

Aziraphale coughed. “Oh! Well, that - Hell seems to have some sort of, of operation planned, possibly in the Netherlands, possibly offshore. But Heaven is clearly on the alert in the area, and I wouldn’t be so impertinent as to point out the obvious.”

“And by Heaven you mean -?”

“Well, er, based on, well, I don’t like to guess -“

Sandalphon glared at him.

“But if I _had_ to, my _guess_ would be Michael. The, er, overall shape of things. More military than civilian. Which would make it doubly not my business. If I’m right.”

“Right. Not your business. You don’t need all these pins, then,” said Sandalphon, ripping the map down and scattering pins, notes, and string all over the bookshelf, the desk, the tea table, the floor, the stacks of books, and Aziraphale himself. Sandalphon wadded the map up and tossed it into a corner, before pulling a creamy envelope with a gold seal out of his coat pocket. “Gabriel wanted to make sure you got these instructions right away.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” said Aziraphale, plucking pins from his previously pristine and ladderless stockings, “but it truly wasn’t necessary for you to bring it personally. The missive system has worked perfectly for centuries now.” And it was much, _much_ more convenient for instructions to materialize on his desk than to deal with Gabriel’s pet attack dog. But he accepted the envelope, broke the seal under Sandalphon’s baleful eye, skimmed the greeting, and read the message.

_It has come to our attention that you have been casting far too many frivolous miracles. You access the powers of Heaven in order to confound the enemy, maintain the reputation of Heaven, command the respect of mortals, and carry out your orders, not for comfort or convenience. It has also been noted that your personal reserve of power has not been depleted since the sixth century. Obviously, you have far more access than you require. Therefore, your budget is cut by half immediately. Please keep a close accounting of all miracles drawn from the budget utilizing more than one-half unit and be ready for a full audit at any time. Your seniority in the department does not exempt you from the standards set by the Head Office._

Aziraphale’s face grew hot, and his hands grew cold, but did not shake. Mentally, he reviewed the non-dictated miracles he’d cast in the last year. Random minor medical relief, his campaign against Mrs. Brown’s oncoming dementia, expenses (which hardly used any power under the reciprocal system he and Crowley had designed to prevent unnatural inflation), many routine accident and hypothermia preventions, some fire suppression, some very minor weather work. Quite a few blessings, but what he did with his Grace was his business. All his _personal_ miracles, keeping tea hot and so on, came out of his reserve. “_Frivolous miracles?_ What does that _mean_?”

“That’s what I came to clarify,” said Sandalphon, and seized him by the throat.

Aziraphale’s hand almost flew up to free himself, but alarm bells went off in his head just in time. Mrs. Brown, Little Jane, Mme. DuMaurier and her baby in the first floor front, the prizefighter still sleeping off his last bout in the second floor back - the house was too full of humans to risk alarming or distressing Sandalphon by reminding him that Aziraphale’s old corporation was physically stronger than Sandalphon’s relatively new one. He barely had time to realize this, go limp, and cease breathing before Sandalphon squeezed, snapped a geas on him, and let go. Aziraphale shook his head, staring at him.

Sandalphon smiled his horrible smile. “Don’t imagine you can complain to Gabriel about that. All the complaints go through me. Everything he signs, I put in front of him, and everything I put in front of him, he signs.”

“What did you do?” Aziraphale asked, probing the spiritual noose, trying to analyze it.

“You think you’re the only Guardian that hasn’t wanted to come to heel?” Sandalphon asked. “You all get down here, start thinking you know better than the desk jockeys, start thinking the rules are yours to bend, that orders from Head Office are _suggestions_. That your job is what _you_ decide it is. You’re all wrong. Your job is what_ Gabriel_ decides it is. In the end, you all fall into line. _You_ really think you’re _different,_ though, don’t you? I told you what Gabriel wanted, thousands of years ago, and I told you how to give it to him, and yet here you are, still dicking around, doing whatever you damn please. Doesn’t matter what anybody else wants, does it? As long as little old Aziraphale gets his way. And now I bet you think_ I’m_ the bad guy for giving you consequences?”

“What consequences?”

Sandalphon picked up Aziraphale’s penknife from the desk, tested its edge, nodded, and said: “Hold out your hand.”

“Answer the question.”

“Sure thing.” With a quick, deft motion, Sandalphon swung at him. Aziraphale blocked, reflexively, and the blade sliced the flesh below his ring.

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at,” Aziraphale began, closing his hand to contain the blood as he healed the cut; and choked, despite not needing air. The geas drew tight around his power, and cut it off.

“_There_ we go.” Sandalphon grinned, cleaning the penknife and flipping it over his shoulder so that it stuck point-down in the blotter. “When you need a miracle to heal yourself, or dodge, or do whatever would keep you from harm, you won’t get it. _That’s_ what we mean by frivolous, you waste of space!”

Aziraphale drew his handkerchief out of his pocket and put pressure on the cut, picking his words carefully. “I see. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I haven’t kept this corporation alive for almost 5800 years by using miracles willy-nilly. I’ve done it by _not_ being a reckless idiot.”

“Oh, you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself,” said Sandalphon. “You like thinking, don’t you? Rather think than act, any day. So you think about this. You don’t get choices. Gabriel wants you, Gabriel _gets_ you, in the condition he _wants_ you, and the longer it takes the harder it’ll be on you when it happens. But I’ll do you a favor, because I’m sick of watching you drag your earth-mired feet. That stuff on your map? Equinox Party. You show up to that, you’ll have lots of chances to get yourself discorporated. You can even make yourself look heroic. But you don’t show? Oh, I’ll rat you out for that so hard! So here’s a nice little choice for you to pretend you’ve got. Show up and be the eager-beaver clever boots that saw a Heaven-Hell clash coming and ran to help. Or stay home all comfortable and let everybody find out that you’re too big a coward to do anything.”

Aziraphale thought of two dozen things to say, and smiled instead. “I see. Good to, to have everything clear. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, rearrange the wards on this place so Heavenly emissaries don’t have to come all the way up the stairs. See you in September.” Sandalphon pushed past him, knocking over the to-be-read stack, and banged the door shut behind him. Aziraphale stood still, pressing his cut, as Sandalphon’s feet thundered down the stairs, threatening to break them. The duMaurier baby started crying. The house door slammed. He sat down at his desk, hand clutching hand, feeling his heart beat much faster than required, his stomach churn, a headache claw its way through his brain - the standard post-Sandalphon experience. But at least Gabriel hadn’t shown up in person. This time.

Aziraphale _knew_ he didn’t get choices, he didn’t _need_ Sandalphon to tell him that! And yet, he kept making them, somehow. Duty got so muddled up in the immediacies of Earth. You couldn’t deal with humans without finding a choice in front of you occasionally.

Or was he making excuses for doing what he wanted to? Sandalphon was right, wasn’t he? He _did_ often do what he wanted to do, even when he knew Heaven wouldn’t approve or understand. And yet, somehow, he never seemed to _have_ much that he wanted.

He did know, it wasn’t as if this wasn’t clear to him, that what he wanted was a matter of no moment to the world.

Except that when he walked abroad, and enjoyed the good things creation had to offer, the beautiful art and the scrumptious food and the thrilling dramas and the books and the music and the good company - it made a difference. Quarrels turn to laughter and crying babies calmed and gurgled as he passed. Careworn faces relaxed into stunningly beautiful smiles, when he smiled. Crowley often groused that he had a damn infectious radiance that made a demon’s life harder and spread good cheer and joy in spite of anything _he_ could do. All while he industriously steered Aziraphale toward the things he enjoyed most.

Not that he should take Crowley’s word for anything, not at face value, demon and all that; but either Crowley was a special demon or Heaven had a lot of misconceptions about them. Either way, it was impossible not to take his opinions seriously. Within certain limits, more seriously than his own. Crowley thought he should want things, and get them, too, and even, even keep them. After the Great Fire, Aziraphale’d come back to where his lodging had been, and found Crowley, who never read for pleasure, sifting through the charred remains, trying to miracle paper and parchment and papyrus back together. _Tell me you at least got your Sappho out,_ he’d said, and Aziraphale had answered: _No, my dear, you know Mr. White can’t walk, and the Sampson children were locked in._ To which Crowley’d replied: _Still, scrolls are light, you could have stuck them in your coat. You loved them!_ To which Aziraphale could only shrug.

He hadn’t put his collection (not only Sappho, but the codex with Patrick’s story in it, everything he’d gotten from Dee’s library as the poor man sold it off over the years, an annotated First Folio, a Tyndale Pentateuch, a - never mind) ahead of his charges during the Great Fire. He’d done his duty and he didn’t regret it and he hadn’t mentioned it in his report because it wasn’t relevant, a mere personal loss - except for the Sappho, and the codex, of which no other copies existed. And because he left that sort of thing out of his reports Sandalphon didn’t have the information that would allow him to judge Aziraphale’s choices when they were forced upon him. So this incident was, it was his _own_ fault, really, as usual, and if he were only braver and could stand up to Sandalphon once in awhile -

Then probably Sandalphon would geas him not to. He might be a terrible angel for hating Sandalphon, but Sandalphon was also a terrible angel, for being hateful. He couldn’t say it out loud, but he could acknowledge it in his heart, and go on.

Aziraphale studied the geas. It was strong (Sandalphon’s miracle budget had never been cut so far as he knew), but not subtle, much like its maker. With time and patience he could pick it apart, but if he did, Sandalphon would notice and he didn’t want to annoy Gabriel’s personal assistant any more than he already had. He should cover it up, though, because when Crowley understood what had happened, he would be angry and have to be talked down. One of the many things Aziraphale did _not_ want to have to do was to defend Sandalphon, of all angels, from Crowley!

No hurry about that, though. It was ten years since he’d _seen_ Crowley.

The bleeding finally stopped. Aziraphale, conscious of how barebones his miracle budget was now, went into the bedroom to put the handkerchief into his washbasin to soak. Cleanliness and air would fix the wound up in good time. His whole body felt heavy and tired and hopeless in the hot, close air, so he shoved some books aside, sat on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, rested his head in his hands, and allowed himself five minutes of self-indulgent daydream.

_He sits at his desk. The door opens behind him. The most familiar and comfortable voice in the world says, You all right, angel? He turns around, and there is Crowley, wigless in black, all black, right down to the marvelously tight smooth stockings (knee breeches were _invented_ for the sake of those improbable legs). Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, but Crowley Sees what he wants, as he always does, and this time, doesn’t restrain himself, doesn’t wait in endless hopeful suspense for a signal Aziraphale cannot allow himself to give. He closes the door behind him, sets his dark spectacles atop the nearest stack of books, and crosses the room in two strides. Soft black iridescent wings mantle above them as Crowley bends himself to match Aziraphale’s seated height. Foreheads together, their arms slide around each other, and dark wings wrap them up in a bubble of safety, where no one can reach them, or hurt them, or demand anything of them, an angel and his demon, complete and content._

When the five minutes were up, Aziraphale opened his eyes, sighed, and went to pull the map out of the corner where Sandalphone had pitched it. Even without the colored pins, when he held it up to let light shine through the holes the general area in which Heaven and Hell would somehow clash was clear enough.

Crowley might know more than he’d let on; but this wasn’t his style, wasn’t his project, wasn’t anything he wanted anything to do with, any more than Aziraphale did.

Let Aziraphale be damned for it, but _neither_ of them would be in harm’s way on the night of the autumnal equinox!

He studied the map, reviewed his resources, calculated distances. Paris. Yes. Close enough that Crowley would realize Aziraphale’d crossed the Channel and come to find out what was up, far enough from the center of things that they would both be able to evade being drawn back in. He knew from experience that his boat could handle both the Channel and the Seine with minimal miraculous assistance. Paris was not exactly a refuge in itself, these days, but maybe things would have calmed down by then. The French were, on the whole, an admirably rational and pragmatic people underneath all the fiery drama. With any luck he and Crowley would be able to take in a play.

Hm... He would need some new clothes...

\-----

The crepes were scrumptious. Crowley ate almost half of one. Aziraphale insisted on paying for once.

When they left the café, it was midafternoon, but the atmosphere felt low and lowering, the wind smelled like blood and stone, and the conflict of Heaven and Hell rumbled, barely detectable to their higher senses, far to the north. By the way his mouth moved, Crowley could smell it, and Aziraphale felt it in his back teeth. He shivered, and took his demon’s arm. Crowley looked at him, eyebrows rising high above the spectacles. “Angel?”

“It doesn’t seem like a very good day for a stroll, does it?” Aziraphale turned briskly toward the Seine. “I made some changes to the boat recently, if you’d care to come see? And I’ve got a new vintage I’d value your opinion on.”

“I don’t mind what we do,” said Crowley, his arm steady as his voice, his stride somehow managing both to slither and to match Aziraphale’s. “But I hope your boat’s less conspicuous than your coat was.”

“Practically invisible,” Aziraphale assured him, with a sigh. “That was an excellent coat. And oh, those shoes! You don’t, don’t really think they’d execute him for wearing them, do you? They knew him well enough? Once they got him into better light?”

“They knew him already,” said Crowley. “One of those guards wanted to give him a good scare, was all. Some jobs, your coworkers don’t like it if you get too much satisfaction from it. Don’t fret yourself. Though why you’d waste any pity on somebody who was proud to make you his thousandth kill I can’t imagine.”

“It’s not pity. He can’t very well repent if he’s dead. Though I don’t suppose I managed to make any inroads on his heart. I have to say, losing language capacity is a shock! Apparently the only thing I speak reliably any more is English. I’ll have to learn everything else the hard way.”

“How is being able to speak to the locals ‘frivolous,’ anyhow?”

“Don’t ask me. I didn’t make the rules.”

“That’s a geas, isn’t it? I can’t quite make out -“

“_Please_ don’t. Not today. I don’t want to talk about it, or think about it.” Aziraphale squeezed his arm.

“Hch. All right.” Crowley looked bewildered, but pleased, as they slipped together through the narrow streets, where the citizens greeted each other on their ways about their business, with barely a trace of unease or sign of knowing how many fellow human beings were dying in an orderly, efficient bloodbath that day. Aziraphale couldn’t find it in his heart to blame them past a certain point. They weren’t _enjoying_ the executions, and many things were better for them since the Revolution. No one starved any more. The burden of unjust death had been shifted up the class scale for once. These people had their children to raise, their loves to protect and pursue, their ambitions and bellies to fill, a civil war to survive, and no long experience to warn them that minding their own business was no protection when violence ran deep. He located the slip where he had tied up his boat, and handed Crowley down the wet stone stairs and onto the deck.

“You got enough wards on her?” Crowley asked, bracing himself against the cabin’s roof. “She practically buzzes!”

“I hope so,” said Aziraphale. “If you’d care to examine them and see if there’s anything I’ve overlooked I would count it as a favor. Come below when you’re ready.”

He could hear Crowley moving about above as he removed the distasteful cap and coat, opened a port for ventilation, got out the wine and glasses, and fussed with the cushions on the bench - bunk - only place to sit. The Seine flowed unhurried beneath the hull and lapped genially at the sides. Was the ceiling high enough? Had he laid in enough lavender to cover the bilge smell? Perhaps he’d lain in too much? Why was he _nervous?_

He was a_ bad_ angel and a_ terrible_ friend. He shouldn’t carry the rest of the plan through. Crowley was safe. That was enough. Any more would be selfish. If -

Crowley slithered into the cabin, perfect calves first. “When you go in for the blessing and cursing you don’t go by halves! I beefed up the one against Dagon a bit. Water’s her element.”

“Yes. Well. I’m hoping she’ll be too busy to come this way.” Aziraphale patted the surface beside him and held out a glass.

Crowley took it, but continued to stand, one hand in his breeches pocket, head bent against the ceiling. “This is a far cry from the Irish Sea in that old cockle boat of yours.”

“Yes. Not too, not excessive, do you think? Given that I’ll never sleep on her? I thought, perhaps, if I ever have a passenger - and it’s nice to have a, a private space when away from home.”

Crowley drank, and Aziraphale knew his eyes moved leisurely behind the spectacles, sizing the place up. “This trip wasn’t about _crepes_, was it?”

“Not _solely_, no. And the original plan _didn’t_ involved dramatic rescues. This is my first outing on the new budget and things got out of hand rapidly. Pray don’t be angry with me, my dear.”

Crowley folded himself up to sit beside him, then unfolded his legs across the cabin toward the shelves housing the logbook, almanac, and charts. “Why should I be angry with you? But I do wonder how you’re timing’s so perfect. Those wards didn’t get drawn up on a whim.”

“No. No, I had been tracking and correlating your messages with other information, and then when, ah, I got the note and the geas, the, the angel who delivered them mentioned an ‘Equinox Party.’ Which was rather a large hint.”

“I see. Any idea what it’s about? I haven't been able to make head nor tails of it.”

“Nothing definite. But what it_ looks_ like is, Michael had some plan for the Host to do - something - and your lot got wind of it and planned an ambush. Then someone in Earthly Affairs noticed and planned a second ambush. Something messy and unpleasant along those lines. I was, ahem, strongly but indirectly invited to show up. But I thought a smaller ambush of my own, taking my old nemesis out of the equation, might be more, more _useful._”

Crowley grinned. “Well. Cheers to ambushing and being ambushed!” They clinked glasses and drank. “I’m not the one who tipped off Dagon to whatever Michael’s up to, for the record.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Aziraphale swirled his glass. “Whatever our standing is with each other, whatever Arrangements we come to, however much we respect each other’s work - it wouldn’t do to forget where our primary allegiances lie.” He downed the drink, faster than it deserved, and poured another.

Crowley took a small case out of his inner coat pocket, folded his spectacles into it, and put it away, then removed the coat and draped it at the head of the bunk. Bonelessly he slid down to sit on the floor, leaning his head back to look up to at Aziraphale, naked-eyed. “An allegiance is a poor substitute for a life, angel. You’re really going to look me in the face and say you got all dressed up and decked out your emergency boat like a queen’s boudoir to get drunk talking about the allegiances we’re skiving off from?”

“It does _not_ look like a queen’s boudoir.”

Crowley grabbed a blue satin cushion and threw it at Aziraphale, who ducked. “Don’t talk to me like I’m blind.”

Love filled the cabin; so cozy compared to the cool demanding love of Heaven, so stable compared to the intense volatile love of humans. Aziraphale’s brain fizzed, and he couldn’t look away from Crowley’s eyes._ I’m hurting him. He can see what I want and it hurts him, that I won’t, that I don’t -_

_No, that’s an excuse, I shouldn’t, it’s selfish, it’s_ -

“Breathe. You’re going to break that glass.”

“It’s not fair,” said Aziraphale, setting down the wine. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want anything he was allowed to have, only the one thing it should never have occurred to him to want. “To you, I mean. They’ll never all be looking the other way again.”

“Exactly. We’re wasting time.”

“So tomorrow, or whenever they stop fighting or whatever they’re doing, everything goes back to normal and - my dear, I know you don’t believe this now, but it’ll be _so much worse._”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s not, not equal, we don’t, the feelings don’t_ match up_ -“

“I don’t care.”

“You think you don’t now but tomorrow you’ll feel used -“

“Don’t tell me how I’m going to feel! Who cares about tomorrow? For all we know my lot are out in the North Sea fathering the antichrist on a whale while your lot provide a dramatic light show! We don’t have an infinite number of tomorrows to pick and choose from till we find the perfect one! We’ve got today. One day and night, maybe two, in a boat warded to a fare-thee-well with nobody remotely interested in us. That’s_ it._ That’s _everything_. If we don’t make the most of it now we’ll never get _any_thing!_ Please_, let me give you what you want for _one_ day!”

He reached up. Aziraphale took his hand, let Crowley pull him down, and kissed him.

The air pressure changed. Through closed eyes, he saw the wings blooming as he kissed Crowley and Crowley kissed him back; black iridescent wings, too huge to be contained within the tiny cabin, enfolding them both.

-30-


End file.
